


this line of kings

by green_postit



Series: gone all the agonists [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auctions, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Protectiveness, Revenge, Senator Ben Solo, Slave Trade, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 19:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7118860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_postit/pseuds/green_postit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He reaches for his communicator to let the General know what's happened, and it's the last thing he remembers before there's a shattering pain against his head and utter blackness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this line of kings

"Tell me, _Colonel_ ," Poe says, "were you trying to make as much noise as possible on our stealth mission, or were you just trying to destroy the best ship in my fleet?"

Ben grunts, his blush made all the ruddier by the blood and bruises. He's half conscious and propped up against a rotting tree as Poe applies thick, gloopy layers of bacta along the gaping wounds and burns he sustained when his ship went down—probably has the Force to thank for the fact he wasn't incinerated along with the cockpit.

Poe knows he should be sympathetic. He can see where Ben's flight jacket has melted into his chest—can _smell_ Ben's burnt skin in the air—but this moment is far too cathartic to not savor a little.

He spent years fighting for every ounce of respect that was so freely given to Ben; years of tests and simulations and an absurd competition that poisoned his life. Now, he finally has the one thing he's craved since he was fifteen and so jealous of Ben Solo he could _scream_. Ben might have been born with power hardcoded into his genetics, but when it came to flying, not even the blood of Anakin Skywalker and Han Solo could give him an advantage.

Poe _is_ the best pilot in the Resistance; this is the proof. It's such a rush he feels giddy with it—and then immediately stows it for later for when he can really gloat. Now his mission is putting Ben back together.

"I would've been _fine_ if you hadn't disregarded basic evacuation procedure," Ben gurgles. The pain must be intense if it's reduced his sharp mouth to parroting protocol. Poe rubs more bacta into his chest, swipes away the milky layers of dead and burned skin.

"And yet I wasn't the one shot out of the sky." Poe taunts him to keep him conscious, takes only a little pleasure at Ben's mounting frustration. "This is why we leave piloting to the _professionals_."

Ben glares at him, but he's too drugged to put real strength behind his anger. Poe shudders as he feels the Force trickle out from Ben, the phantom echo of his own sticky hands as they slide across Ben's chest and shoulders and belly, the slow but persistent prickle of arousal begin to sizzle across his nerves. Ben is panting—mouth utterly mutilated—lips puffy with blood and peeled back like the plucked petals of a flowers. Poe suddenly, overwhelmingly, _desperately_ , wants to kiss him.

He's not sure if he's experiencing Ben's desires or if his own; has more sense than to unzip Ben's pants and climb on top of him, but the urge is _right_ there, a siren song. The only thing better than Ben's blood in his mouth and the thrill of victory sharp in his chest would be Ben's thick dick inside of him, blotting out the need to breathe. Poe pushes past the lizard part of his brain that's noticing how Ben still looks powerful and strong even while crumpled in a mangled, smoldering heap.

" _Move_." Ben hisses as he bats away Poe's slick hands and uses the gnarled roots of the tree to push himself upward. He struggles to stand, and staggers forward when he finally does. Upright, his injuries look worse. Poe catches him around his hips but buckles under his weight, grunts and strains to keep him from hurting himself further.

"Sit down, you stubborn moof-milker," Poe snaps. Ben slides to the ground, graceless.

"'was _fine_ ," Ben mutters. Poe tugs on his ear to keep him focused—takes Ben's scowl as proof he'll stay awake. He uses the last of the bacta to recoat Ben's face, takes longer than strictly necessary to trace the heavy thickness of his mouth, slides both thumbs along his strong nose. He's still swollen, but the worst of the damage is now a bright pink line that will vanish come morning.

As Poe stands, he feels a familiar pull at his wrist—an invisible shackle that feels sewn into the molecules of his arm. He wonders when Ben will realize he has a tendency to restrain Poe with the Force whenever he tries to leave. After years of petty anger, Poe learned that the hold would vanish like smoke if he stopped struggling against it and assured it he was coming back. He's as Force sensitive as a rock, but he knows how to coax and calm Ben—reaches out and nudges at the pull, lets it lap at the forefront of his mind, and feels the pressure unravel.

He reaches for his communicator to let the General know what's happened, and it's the last thing he remembers before there's a shattering pain against his head and utter blackness.

\---

The jostling is what wakes him.

At first, the nausea makes him squeeze his eyes shut. The air is freezing. He smells blood—realizes it's his own when he has to pry his lips apart, peel his eyes open. His skin is stiff with it from the gash on his head.

He has no idea how long he's been unconscious for, but it's dark outside and very cold. Poe's not even sure he's on the same planet anymore—might even be a different system based on the weather.

There are heavy chains wrapped securely around his knees and wrists, and they're all connected to a wide, rusty chain that's bolted to the floor of a filthy cage. He looks around and is relieved to find he's alone. Whoever took him was smart enough to triple reinforce the shackles, but dumb enough to leave Ben behind—probably thought he was as good as dead and not worth the effort.

When he swallows, he feels a snug ring at the base of his neck. His blood runs colder than the air when he reaches up and touches the metal, feels the ornate markings of an obedience collar—knows that any attempts at removing it without explicit permission from the primary owner would result in an electrical surge that would instantly cook his brain.

He's being wheeled into an arena with a crudely assembled seating area. There are rows and rows of cages along the walls, the people inside shaking and crying and praying. It doesn't take Poe long to piece it together.

They had been sent to find out about the illegal slave auctions for the galaxy's underbelly.

It's just his luck that he's now set to feature in it.

\---

He's been on display for hours.

Small mercies, he's still on the same planet—recognizes the overly sweet native flowers that his captors tossed at the cages to mask the stench.

Poe loses track of how many people pass by his cage, of how many sets of eyes trail his naked, shivering body. Their intel said this particular abduction group had a wide reach in the black market, but there was no way to understand the full scope of it until Poe saw it with his own eyes. He personally recognizes eleven senators and a handful of dignitaries, a few monarchs and a couple of warlords on the Republic's Most Wanted all walking side-by-side like old friends.

The VIP list for this is impressive. Only patrons with the personal fortune of an entire planetary system seem to have been granted access. After the first dozen people that reach in and touch him, Poe's vendor starts charging, starts stuffing emeralds and diamonds the size of his fist in his pockets as Poe grits his teeth and bares the groping.

He couldn't stop it, anyway. The chains restrict nearly all mobility—keep his body splayed and his head forward but tilted down enough to look humbled. The only benefit of his position is the nearly unobstructed view he has of the only entryway to the arena. He's the first person to notice Ben when he makes his grand entrance, but Poe would have spotted him even if he were trying to blend in.

Gone is the sarcastic and tactical Colonel of the Resistance; gone the wielder of the greatest mystical power in the universe; gone the man who drives Poe to distraction and back again. When Ben enters the arena, Poe sees Ben's least favorite version of himself: the grandson of Naboo's most beloved Queen and His Royal Highness Ben Organa, the crowned Prince of Alderaan.

Ben hates the ceremony of ambassadorship. He always complains about the thick, uncomfortable layers of silks and lace and having his face meticulously painted—especially despises having his hair pulled back in the intricate braids that make his ears stick out—yet here he is in full regalia, looking every inch the royal of his birthright.

Poe knows Ben would never have voluntarily donned the robes and headpiece he loathes, can see the General's fingerprints all over this.

It's a distraction.

Ben slowly walks toward him—peruses all the cages in his path with a disinterested gaze, feigns interest in a few, before he stops in front of Poe. He squares his shoulders, shakes out the full breadth of his opulent maroon robe, and fixes Poe with a blistering look. He's effectively blocked off most of Poe's naked, sore body from general view, and Poe doesn't think he'll ever be able to repay him for that small dignity.

"How long?" he asks, keeps his voice as light as he can.

"Two days. Backup is on its way," Ben murmurs, wears the mask of a bored and spoiled monarch masterfully. His eyes narrow as he traces the gash along Poe's hairline. It's caked with dirt and blood, hot with infection. "Are you—"

"Yeah," Poe cuts him off, forces a smile. He feels the cut on his head split open and trickle. He's so cold his arms and feet have gone numb. Ben begins to lift his arm but quickly presses it against his side, glares at nothing in particular. "So, you gonna help me outta here or are you just enjoying the view?"

Ben smirks, distorting his painted cheeks.

Out loud, he says: "You've been damaged. There's no way I'm paying full price now." Ben's voice is critical and angry, but the smug expression says how much he's enjoying this, the _bastard_.

"You're an asshole." Poe wants to throttle him—wants to choke the infuriating grin off his chalk white face. Ben is lapping up every ounce of his attention like he's starved for it.

"Is that how you talk to royalty?" Ben tuts in the neutral voice he dons whenever he wants to terrorize the newbie recruits. "Perhaps I should find someone with a little more _respect_."

"Do you want me to _courtesy_?" Poe jostles the tight chains to emphasize his point. He can't remember when he stopped actively loathing Ben, when he started wanting him—when the all-consuming need to best Ben morphed into the crippling thrill of taking him to his knees with a single look.

" _Ooh_ ," Ben purrs, his sonorous voice ripples up Poe's spine and warms him right to his bones. "So you'll _bow_ for me? Should I have that stipulated in your purchase contract?"

Poe's about to tell him where he can shove his contract when a booming voice announces that the auction is about to begin.

"Don't go anywhere," Ben teases as he turns toward the enclosed tent that people are streaming into. "I have plans for you and that collar later."

\---

Hours pass in a hazy, blood-loss induced blur. Poe slips in and out of consciousness, exhausted. He's jolted awake when a freezing bucket of water is dumped over his head, makes him shout from shock.

"Your new master wants you clean," the vendor gripes—as if it's Poe's fault he was knocked unconscious and imprisoned in filth for two days. "That royal sure did want you." He gives Poe a blatant once over. "Not sure you're worth the price he paid."

Poe blames the concussion for his smile, for the fluttering in his belly, for the warmth in his gut that banishes the cold. The vendor releases the chains and Poe immediately buckles—his limbs unsteady from disuse. He isn't even given a second to enjoy the mobility before he's dragged out of the cage by the chain attached to the collar.

He's only yanked a few feet, but he struggles the whole way; chokes against the bruising pull. He's unceremoniously tossed into a room and hears the door lock behind him. He tries to push himself up onto his knees, but collapses—his arms are still weak and his shins sting fiercely from where a layer of skin was rubbed off.

"Now isn't this a lovely sight?" A smooth, oily voice says.

Poe jerks his head up—only now realizes he's facing a man with piercing blue eyes and bright red facial tattoos.

Poe's stomach clenches. It's King Varik Kase, the most ruthless warlord the Outer Region has seen since the days of the Empire. Tales of his cruelty have travelled the length of the galaxy. His preference for slave labor is notorious.

Poe's instincts scream at him to _move_ —to _fight._

"Stay right where you are." Kase commands and instantaneously, a rush of electricity course through the collar, makes Poe feel lightheaded. He sighs when his mind is shocked clear of all thoughts, and instead, floods with sensation. Kase walks over, touches the side of his face; traces along the cut on his forehead, digs his nail in and scrapes it open again.

Poe moans. The pain feels _incredible_.

"What a curious occasion," Kase keeps his voice level as he circles Poe, "that I should come across Poe Dameron, the Republic’s poster boy, _and_ Prince Organa of Alderaan at this humble auction." He crouches down, twists his fingers in Poe's hair, and pulls his neck back. "Curious, because I know the Prince's system doesn't condone slavery."

The euphoria of the collar begins to wear off. Poe feels his thoughts returning, the compulsion lessening enough for him to know he has to stall—to give Ben the opportunity to find them. Kase keeps talking at Poe, tightens his grip on his hair.

“So imagine my suspicion when I see the Crowned Prince not only place a bid, but keep bidding on _you_ , as if he somehow knew you would be here despite you being a last minute addition to the catalogue. He was desperate at the end to have you, not that most people could tell with that face of his. He offered more credits for you than an auction like this would make in its entirety." Kase grins, leans in close. "So, what makes you so special?"

Poe smirks as best he can, holds it up like armor. "I'm a wonderful florist."

Kase backhands him with a smile. Poe's vision blurs.

"There's been a little rumor floating around for years. That the Prince keeps a lover nobody's ever met before. It's fairly common practice in our circles. He's young, unwed; is probably ashamed of who he _breeds_. That rumor is boring. The real rumor is that the Prince keeps a lover who fights for the Resistance."

Poe keeps his gaze as vacant as he can, ignores how close Kase is to his throat.

"A _lover_ , he'd probably spend a fortune trying to free," Kase's voice is sickly sweet, "don't you think?"

"I think only fools put any stock in rumors." Poe's voice quavers only at the beginning.

Kase lightly strokes the side of Poe's face before he backhands him again. Blood floods Poe's mouth. "You've some fight in you. There are those who would appreciate that. I do not. Disrespect me like that again and I'll make you chew off your tongue and eat it."

Poe swallows the blood he was going to spit on his face.

"I imagine the First Order would pay handsomely for a Resistance officer. I don't even think they would mind if he wasn't delivered in one piece." He squeezes around Poe's neck, licks at the corner of his jaw.

A choked off scream and loud bang draw their attention to the door. It's kicked open seconds later, Ben's tall body filling the frame. The usually arrogant, detached expression on Ben's face is gone. In its place; the breathtaking sight of his crackling fury. He's apoplectic—the red of his cheeks bleeds through the caked white makeup.

"I was wondering if you'd come for him," Kase taunts. He wraps the chain around his fist, tugs. "I'm going to enjoy taking your lover apart. I think I'll remove his knees first. Make him the _crawl_ for me."

Ben’s fingers curl into claws—snarls, vicious as a wampa.

"Tell me, Your Highness, do you think the First Order will use his mouth the way I'm going to?"

" _Give_ him to me." Ben's voice could raze a forest, his sharp eyes darker than Poe's ever seen them.

Kase's terror is palpable as he automatically orders Poe to obey Ben. Poe feels a rush of satisfaction at obeying Kase's command and a fervid need to submit to Ben's will.

Ben crushes him tight against his chest, and tucks him beneath the heavy drape of his robe. Poe feels him lift his right hand, feels the muscles bunch and his chest expand in the familiar way it does when he's concentrating on projecting the Force into someone else's mind.

After only a few moments, Ben breaks out of his trance and gasps, shakes. He's vibrating with anger. His heart pounds against Poe's ear, his breathing sharp and erratic. He's terrified. Poe tries to sooth the Force he feels constricting around him, but Ben rejects it and clings even tighter.

"Listen very, very carefully to me." Ben's voice is thick with disgust, his orders sharp despite being given through his gnashing teeth. "Go to your kingdom. Free _everyone_ of their collars and divide your wealth amongst every _single_ one of them."

Kase parrots back Ben's instructions helplessly. Poe feels like he's suffocating—the air too thick to breathe. He wants to rip what's choking him from his lungs, but can't move a single limb in Ben's hold; never realized just how strong Ben was until he was trapped.

The next breath Ben takes rattles through Poe's chest. He feels the Force radiate off Ben's skin in vexed waves—feels an electrical cackle tear through every fiber of his body.

It _hurts_.

"Once you've done that," Ben's voice hitches as he tries to stamp down his rage. "You're going to go to the highest cliff in your kingdom and you're going to walk right off it. Go. _Now._ "

"Ben, _no_ ," Poe implores, but Ben's not listening. He's pushing so much of the Force into his command he's going weak from it, knees shaking and chest heaving from the strain. He collapses once Kase walks past them, brings Poe down with him in a tangle of silk and furs, is still squeezing Poe so tight his bones ache.

"The things he was going to do to you." Ben chokes, overwhelmed. He looks gutted, like he was too late. Poe grabs his shaking face in his hands, wraps his arms around his head and presses it against his chest, lets him hear the rapid beating of his heart. Ben scratches at Poe's shoulders, brings him level with his face again.

Poe opens his mouth to speak, but his words are swallowed by Ben's desperate mouth, chased away by the hot press of his tongue.

Poe sinks into the kiss, takes just as much as Ben does, wraps himself inside Ben's cloak and finds Ben's hands. He squeezes them tightly.

Distantly, he hears the roar of approaching X-wings.

He tries to pull away—to catch his breath—but Ben has latched onto him tighter than ever before with the Force, around his hands, under the shackle on his neck.

"I'm safe," Poe finally says, still pressed against Ben's face. The makeup has melted, mixed with dirt and Poe's blood. "We're safe."

But Ben doesn't let go.

Poe tries again, "I'm not going anywhere—promise."

Ben's grip finally loosens, but when he looks at Poe, he's rueful. "That's what you said last time."

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my incredible beta [spikeface](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeface/pseuds/spikeface), and to [EmilianaDarling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling).
> 
> You can find me on **Tumblr at[green_postit](http://green-postit.tumblr.com/)**!


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